Loss
by Juliabohemian
Summary: Loki is at a party and he's not having any fun. Post Infinity War AU.


_Second person. Loki's point of view. Some feels. You were warned._

 _I sort of wrote this for all the people who were tired of hearing about how much Thor has suffered, while Loki's loss continues to be swept under the rug. So if that's a notion that offends you, feel free to not read this story. I won't mind._

* * *

 **Loss**

You watch them encircle your brother like eager chickens around a feed basket, each offering their assorted condolences. They're so sorry for his loss. Or losses, rather. There have been so many now that it's a struggle to keep track of them all. They comment on his bravery and his resilience. It's amazing how he manages to stay in good spirits, despite all he's endured. Even minus one eye, he truly is an inspiration.

You wonder if anyone would notice if you began vomiting. You highly doubt it.

You sip your drink, politely. Their eyes periodically dart in your direction. They're not going to any trouble to conceal their distrust. Despite Thor's repeated assurances, it's clear they are all expecting you to betray them at any moment. Except for Bruce, who tosses you the occasional wary smile. You're so used to this by now, it's practically white noise. You think of all those meals in the banquet hall when you were a child, listening to Thor regale the court with details of his latest adventure. Your presence always seemed so pointless in such settings, just as pointless as it seems here and now. Somehow you knew, even then, that there was something different about you. Although you suppose that _different_ is a generous description. Either way, it has not escaped your attention that you have once again found yourself out of place among your brother's peers.

You are almost startled when you feel the couch cushion moving. No one sneaks up on _you_ , not with any measure of success. You frown when you realize that you were so rapt in thought that you allowed yourself to become indifferent to your surroundings. You turn to regard the person who is apparently now sitting beside you. You are surprised to discover that he is no more than a child. You assume he is unacquainted with your visage. Otherwise he would be expressing the appropriate degree of terror right now, or at least disapproval. Anything but the dopey, saccharine grin that is now gracing his lips.

He says nothing, at first. So, you raise your glass in a mock toast.

"Oh, I can't drink," he shares.

"Something wrong with your mouth?" you ask.

The boy laughs at your retort. It's not merely a courteous response, but a display of genuine amusement.

"No, I mean…I _can_ drink," he amends. "I just can't consume alcoholic beverages. I'm too young."

You nod. Somehow it slipped your mind that Earth children are forbidden to imbibe. A shame, truly. You recall many a summer night that you and Thor spent lying on your backs under the stars, your bellies full of wine. It was thick like syrup and the taste was sickeningly sweet, at least compared to the bitter spirits of this realm. You briefly consider conjuring some for the lad. It probably wouldn't take long for a youth of his size to succumb to intoxication. You promised to be on your best behavior, however. And as much as the idea of mischief delights you, you do not wish to give Thor any cause to chastise you in front of _Earth's Mightiest Heroes_.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here," the boy admits.

A thousand potential quips pass through your mind, ranging from playful to downright insulting. But you detect something in the boy's eyes that gives you pause, and you decide to hold your tongue.

"I heard what happened," the boy offers. "That sucks."

You consider the euphemism, which you interpret as a crude expression of sympathy. You can never seem to keep track of Midgardian vernacular, as it appears to change drastically from one day to the next. Just a few hours ago, you overheard someone reacting to unfortunate news with the words _that blows_. It makes little sense for two things that are opposite of one another to have the same exact meaning.

"My parents died in a car accident when I was eleven," the boy adds, bluntly.

You aren't sure how to respond. You don't understand why the boy is choosing to divulge this particular information, especially to you. Surely, he knows better than to seek your pity. Or perhaps he doesn't. You've grown so accustomed to your own losses going unnoticed that you genuinely do not recognize the boy's attempt to commiserate.

You look across the room. Thor's voice is now hushed. You can tell from his body language that he is telling a story of some sort, one in which he is most certainly the hero. While you know that he means well, you're still relieved that you can't hear his words. It's almost painful to watch, how easily he manages, how freely he speaks. Some of the others have broken off into pairs or smaller groups. You catch Bruce's eye for a moment. The other man issues you an awkward wave, before returning his attention to Thor.

The boy is staring at you, expectantly. You think perhaps if you were more like your brother you might know what to say right now. Except that you're nothing like your brother and you don't. For as long as you can remember, you've carefully guarded your thoughts and feelings, because you know how easily they can be used against you. It seems inconceivable to simply give them away, to a total stranger no less. If you could, you might say that you would very much like to go home right now. Except that you can't, because home is gone forever. You might say that you're fairly sure that Thor loves you in his own way, but that he's never really understood you and he probably never will. You might say that the grief you feel for your own parents varies so greatly from one moment to the next, that it is thoroughly exhausting. Sometimes you are overwhelmed by the bitterness and the anger. Other times you miss them so much that you fear it may tear you apart. But you cannot say these things. Not to this boy, or to anyone else for that matter. You shudder to think what the people in this room might do with such information.

You quickly gulp down the rest of your drink, if not merely to have something else to do with your mouth besides speak. You wish the child would leave you alone, so you could go back to stewing in silence. You don't want to talk right now, especially not about death, or parents. Or anything, really.

"Are you okay?" the boy asks.

You are in the process of swallowing the last of your champagne. But you're so surprised by the inquiry that you nearly choke. You clear your throat several times. It sounds positively undignified. The boy's eyes are on you, wide and concerned. There's an undeniable innocence there. You suddenly realize that the boy knows exactly who you are. He's not afraid of you. But for some reason, he appears to be afraid _for_ you. You begin to experience an emotion that you cannot define. And you're curious how someone so pure managed to find himself in the company of these people. You want to reassure the child that you are fine, if not just to put an end to his piercing gaze. For once, you can't seem to bring yourself to lie.

You glance around, trying to remember where you left the damn bottle. You locate it on the table, a few feet away. You lean forward and grab it. You take your time, refilling your glass. You know you're being impolite, that you should reply to the boy's query. You simply don't know how to have this conversation. You're not used to discussing things so openly and without pretense. You find yourself wondering if Thor is _okay_ , or whether he would tell you if he wasn't. Your relationship has become nothing more than a delicate balance of well-maintained lies, and you can't remember the last time you were honest with one another about anything. You know that everything has changed, that you have reached an impasse, and you will either find a way to move forward or die trying. You aren't sure which outcome you would prefer.

The boy is still looking at you, awaiting a response. It's not as though you don't know the answer to his question. You do. You know that you are not _okay_. You can't even remember the last time you were _okay_. You don't really feel like sharing that, however. And you're certain that if you were to lie, this boy would know it. So you sip your drink a bit, buying yourself some more time. The space around you begins to seem smaller, almost as though the walls are closing in. You're curious what might happen if you just started screaming, or whether Thor would be minding you more closely if he had any idea what sort of madness was dancing around in your head.

The boy takes out his phone and plays with it, tapping the screen and scrolling with his finger. You continue to spy on Thor, who is pleasantly oblivious to your attention. He hasn't looked in your direction once since the boy sat down. You decide that he's probably forgotten you are even here.

"Would you like to see a picture of my parents?" the boy asks, holding his phone up directly in front of your face.

You actually wouldn't. But you see no harm in indulging him.

You regard the image carefully. In it there is a young couple and a boy. They look to be having a picnic by the seaside. All three of them are smiling. They appear nice enough, although it's admittedly difficult to tell from just a picture.

"We took this about nine months before..." The boy trails off, his shoulder slumping slightly. He sets the phone back down in his lap.

It dawns on you that you don't have any pictures of your parents. Sure, you could conjure a physical representation of them. But it would be based on memory and wouldn't necessarily be an accurate likeness. When you feel something tickling your nose, you tell yourself it's bubbles from the champagne, even though you know better. It occurs to you how incredibly shameful it is that you can't even be honest with yourself. You don't know how much longer you can sit here, like this. You desperately want to leave, to retreat to the safety of your bed. It's bad enough that you and Thor are sharing a room, even if it is only temporary. You suppose that you should appreciate having a place to stay at all. But of course, you don't. This realm is not home, and it never will be.

Finally, the boy puts away his phone and stands up. He smiles at you one last time, and then makes his way across the room. You wonder if he will report your rudeness to the others. You suppose it doesn't really matter, since they already think the absolute worst of you. You watch the boy flit from one conversation to the next, stopping only briefly, not unlike a bee pollinating flowers. His attempts to join in are inelegant and almost entirely unsuccessful. Yet he doesn't appear the least bit discouraged. There's something about him that you find intriguing. And so, you observe him quietly for another hour, until Thor finally approaches you and tells you that it's time to leave.

"Well, I must say," he remarks, as the two of you walk back to your room, "you made yourself positively scarce."

"You're welcome," you reply. Because you're certain that was exactly what he wanted, even if he would never admit it. You're not sure why he even brought you in the first place.

He frowns. "In most cultures it's considered rude not to engage in at least minimal conversation at a social gathering."

"I spoke to the boy," you inform him, smugly. You reach the door a few seconds before he does. You turn the knob and fling it open. It's spacious enough. But the idea of sleeping in the same room with your brother, after all these years, leaves you feeling confined. Even in the dungeon, you had a cell to yourself.

"Ah yes," Thor returns, "the young spider. He expressed his concerns."

Once you're both inside the room, he pulls the door closed behind you. You take off your jacket and drape it over the chair in the corner.

"Concerns?" you inquire, casually. You begin to wonder if the child was sent by his elders to spy on you, and to document any suspicious behavior. It would explain his indiscriminate interest in your personal life. You try to remember what you might have said that could have given him cause for alarm. You can't think of anything.

When you glance up you notice that Thor appears to be studying you. It makes you uncomfortable, because you don't know what he's looking for. You sit down on the edge of your bed and fold your hands in your lap.

"He said you seemed sad," he explains.

"Preposterous," you respond, automatically. You try to sound as convincing as possible. How dare the boy make such a claim. You throw in a scoff for good measure. "I'm positively the embodiment of stoicism and strength."

Thor continues to stare at you. His hands are on his hips. Even with only one eye, he manages to be intimidating. Not only that, but you still aren't used to him having such short hair. You look at the floor. "Besides," you ask, quietly, "what reason do _I_ have to be sad?"

It's not a rhetorical question, even though you're sure to make it sound like one. Some part of you is actually hoping for an answer. But he doesn't give you one. So you kick off your shoes and crawl onto your bed.

"I'm going to sleep," you announce. You curl onto your side, pulling the blanket over your body. You assume the conversation is over.

"Did you know his parents had perished?" he asks.

"Nope," you reply, curtly. You have no idea how much longer Thor is going to wait to retire. So, you reach behind your back and grab your spare pillow. You put it over your face, in a vain attempt to block out the light.

"He said he mentioned it," Thor insists.

"Well, the boy prattled on so much," you lie, "I honestly began tuning him out after a while."

"Right." Thor's tone implies some kind of resignation. Or maybe it's acceptance. You're not really sure. It doesn't really matter anyway. You listen to him moving about the room, putting things away, changing into his nightclothes. Finally, he turns off the light. You discard the spare pillow and try to relax. You wait patiently for him to fall asleep. But more than an hour passes, and you can tell by the way he's breathing that he's still very much awake.

"Loki?" When he calls out your name, you feel a slight tremble in your gut. You don't say anything, at first. Even though you're pretty sure that he knows you're not asleep. You wait a few more seconds, wondering if he will say more or if he's actually expecting a response.

"What?" you eventually reply. You have absolutely no idea what he could possibly want. You're just hoping that he'll make it quick. Because you've had about all the confrontation you can handle for one evening, and you really want to rest.

You wait for him to say something. But he doesn't. In the darkness, you roll your eyes. You wonder if you should repeat yourself. Except that he initiated the exchange. So you feel as though the burden should fall on him to maintain it. You roll onto your back and sigh. He makes some kind of noise that you don't recognize. His mattress creaks a bit, as he shifts his position.

"What is it?" you finally demand. You're beginning to get irritated.

You can actually hear him taking a deep breath, before he speaks. You wonder what the hell he's planning to say, that is causing so much trepidation.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says.

You're stunned. The trembling in your gut returns. Under the blanket, you squeeze your hands into tight fists. You play the sentence over and over again in your mind. _Your loss_...as in loss that is _yours_ , as in belonging to _you_. Your loss... _your_ loss. Thor doesn't clarify what he means by that. But there's really no reason to. You've lost everything that he's lost, haven't you? Except for the eye, of course. And the hair. What other loss could he possibly mean?

You know there was a time when you and Thor still found solace in each other. But that was so long ago, before you learned to fashion weapons from one another's weaknesses. You recall those brief periods of unity when you deemed Odin your common foe. There would be some shared mischief, and the inevitable chastisement that followed. Afterwards you would crawl into his bed, or he into yours. You'd nurse your bruised egos, declaring the unfairness of it all, eventually crying yourselves to sleep in each other's arms. You cringe at the reminder that either of you were ever so small or so vulnerable.

 _I'm sorry for your loss._

You realize that it could not have been an easy thing for him to express, that it's very possible he even agonized about it. You know that you should say something. Such a statement deserves a response. You continue to wring your hands as you attempt to sort it out. You don't know what to say. You can't help wondering what might happen if you just crawled into Thor's bed instead, whether he would offer you comfort, or whether he would accept yours. You quickly dismiss the thought. You know that you are no longer children, and the time during which such behavior was acceptable has long since passed.

You take a deep breath before you speak, much like he did just a few moments ago.

"Thank you," you say. And you mean it. You're grateful. It's as though he's given you something, although you're not really sure what. For the moment anyway, you are _okay_. You know the feeling won't last, and so you hold onto it as long as you can.

"Welcome," he murmurs, gently. You listen as his breathing slows and becomes a soft rumbling. You open your hands and your body gradually begins to relax. You close your eyes again and fall into an easy sleep.


End file.
